


if you don't kill me first

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, the existential despair of being on the 2019-2020 red wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It wasn’t until Dylan was two and a half beers deep that he said, “So apparently I’m too pathetic to fuck.”Tyler stared at the TV, and then stared at Dylan, who was staring into his beer can as if he was considering drowning himself in it. “What?”“I’m, like.” Dylan sighed. “They gave up on the forfeit because literally everyone in the room felt too sorry for me to get it up.”
Relationships: Tyler Bertuzzi/Dylan Larkin
Comments: 7
Kudos: 193
Collections: Anonymous, The Sin Bin: A Hockey RPF Kink Meme





	if you don't kill me first

**Author's Note:**

> this comes from a sinbin prompt and deals with the victory gangbang/sex forfeits trope. if you aren't familiar: the losing team sends over a volunteer to be fucked by as many people on the winning team as want to participate. as per the prompt, the red wings have been losing a _lot..._and dylan's feeling responsible, so he volunteers himself and un-volunteers everyone else.
> 
> while the psychological implications of this aren't super delved into, and the only sex people actually have here is vanilla tyler/dylan, the underlying premise involves coercion and sex as self-harm. if that's gonna be a problem for you hit that mfing back button. 
> 
> title is from "can't win" by pup, for. obvious reasons.

Tyler forgot his keys, because of course he fucking did. He got all the way out to the parking garage and reached for the key fob, only it wasn’t in his pocket, and it wasn’t in his other pants pocket or his jacket pockets. He looked up at the concrete ceiling with its eye-watering fluorescent lights. “Fuck,” he told it solemnly, and turned back around.

So that was how he ran into Erik Johnson. Tyler nodded at him—it wasn’t the kind of loss, tonight, that he had hard feelings about—and meant to just walk by. Only Johnson frowned and stepped closer. “Hey, Bertuzzi,” he said in an undertone, “does nobody else in your shitshow volunteer for forfeits?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Tyler. “Larks doesn’t let anyone else go for it, is all.”

Johnson’s glare intensified. He wasn’t _that _much taller than Tyler; he didn’t need to act like a goon. “Doesn’t _let _anyone. And none of you stop him?”

It wasn’t that Tyler _liked _it. No one on the team was happy about anything with their current situation, but. “He’s the captain, dude, what are we gonna do?”

“Jesus,” said Johnson, and at least didn’t try to argue the whole _captain _thing. The only reason Dylan didn’t have a C on his chest already was to keep him from becoming the figurehead on their torpedoed ship, but he’d taken on the job anyway. “Talk him out of it. We never let Gabe get away with this shit.”

“Good for you,” said Tyler, abruptly furious, and set his jaw and angled past Johnson. MacKinnon could have gotten Landeskog in a headlock until someone else had time to take the forfeit, probably. Who was going to do that for Dylan?

Johnson let him go with a snort and a shoulder-check, and Tyler stewed all the way back to the locker room. Better to be pissed than let his mind wander right now. He wasn’t going to think about Dylan in the visitor’s locker room for about the millionth time this season, wasn’t going to wonder how many of the Avs guys actually stayed.

When he opened the locker room door and his anger left him, fast and winding as a check to the boards, because Dylan was there already.

He’d figured Johnson must’ve ducked out of the celebrations; he didn’t realize they were _done. _Even if all the Avs didn’t go for forfeits they’d have to take more than, what, twenty minutes? Dylan had ducked out as soon as the media had left.

Dylan looked up, just as startled to see Tyler as Tyler was to see him. His mouth was red and his hair was still damp from the shower, dripping into the collar of his shirt.

“Landeskog couldn’t get it up?” asked Tyler.

A tiny, hysterical little noise pushed its way out of Dylan’s throat, and he leaned harder on his knees, deflating like a balloon. And then he didn’t say anything.

Tyler waited for a second, and Dylan still didn’t say anything, so he walked to his stall and rustled through his gear bag until he found his keys. When he straightened back up, Dylan still hadn’t moved.

“Hey Larks, you wanna go somewhere?”

Dylan blinked at him. Which, fine. Tyler and Dylan didn’t really hang out on their own, but that didn’t mean they _couldn’t. _“Where?”

Tyler chewed his lip. He didn’t really want to go _out _out. Maybe if the rest of the team had suggested it, but they hadn’t, and on the way to the car he’d mostly been planning— “I have Natty Lite and Hulu.”

The noise Dylan made was closer to a real laugh this time. “Sure, I’ll come over and drink your shitty beer.”

“Hell yeah,” said Tyler.

They didn’t run into any Avs heading back out to the parking lot, thank God. From the corner of Tyler’s eye Dylan looked—alright; his shirt was unbuttoned a little lower than normal, jacket slung over one arm. He glanced at the knees of Dylan’s suit pants, and those looked clean, too. Maybe Dylan scowled at the tile floor too much, but he did that anyway.

Neither of them said anything, about the game or the forfeit or whatever. They didn’t talk until they reached their cars and Tyler gave Dylan his address. That was fine.

At Tyler’s apartment they changed—well, Tyler put on sweatpants, and Dylan just stripped to his undershirt and boxer briefs—and Tyler put on _It’s Always Sunny _while Dylan grabbed the drinks, passed a beer and a Powerade to Tyler and then tucked himself into the opposite corner of the couch.

It wasn’t until Dylan was two and a half beers deep that he said, “So apparently I’m too pathetic to fuck.”

Tyler stared at the TV, and then stared at Dylan, who was staring into his beer can as if he was considering drowning himself in it. “What?”

“I’m, like.” Dylan sighed. “They gave up on the forfeit because literally everyone in the room felt too sorry for me to get it up.”

So it had to be _bad._

Tyler had been to his share of forfeits on both ends. Losing wasn’t _supposed _to feel good. Guys came in upset or pissed off or nervous all the time, but they _did _it, and usually there were a few vets around who knew how to get them to relax.

_Are you okay? _bubbled up Tyler’s throat, but it was too stupid a question to bother asking. “You gotta let someone else take these.” Tyler tried for a grin. “Not like I’d’ve _minded _getting off.”

“Yeah,” said Dylan, and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. Shit.”

Tyler waited. The TV babbled away.

“It’s just. I can’t remember what it feels like to _want _to get laid, you know? I tried to pick up, but it’s—” Dylan broke off, took another swig with a grimace. “I get in my head about impressing her and it’s just too fucking much. _God._”

Tyler didn’t do repression. He thought about how red Dylan’s mouth had been, and the way his broad shoulders uncurled on the rare occasion they actually _won _a game. He imagined how Dylan must look all fucked out on a locker room bench, damp and loose and too tired to be anything but relaxed for once.

There were levels involved here, sure. Plenty of guys were just horny for getting one over on the opposing team. He took it up the ass recreationally—at least when he didn’t have to skate in the morning—but that didn’t mean Dylan did.

Still.

“You don’t wanna impress someone, Dyls, I’m right here,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows at Dylan as he took another sip.

Dylan rolled his eyes. Glanced at the TV, and then back at Tyler, and then looked Tyler up and down from his flattened beanie/helmet hair to the frayed ends of his sweatpants. “You’re not serious.”

“If you want me to be.”

Dylan took that in. Then he chugged half his beer and set it down with a hollow _clank _on the coffee table. Twisting around, he swung his leg up on the couch and leaned back against the armrest. “Get over here, then.” It was his captain voice, forceful and a little whiny, and Tyler’s stomach swooped.

He put his beer down and shuffled to get a knee between Dylan’s legs, holding onto the back of the couch to keep steady, one foot braced against the floor. Dylan didn’t move, didn’t help or touch him; just leaned back and watched, frowning like Tyler was tape he needed to study. It was ridiculous enough that Tyler laughed.

“What?” Dylan asked, frowning. Poor guy, his ego had to be bruised already.

“This is just—” Tyler got a hand on the armrest so he could lean down and bump his nose against Dylan’s. “We’re doing this, eh?” And he laughed again.

“Your idea,” said Dylan. Obviously, because it was a damn good one. Tyler kissed him to prove it.

Usually Tyler was—he’d had a couple of people tell him he was too much, too soon, but Dylan went from zero to fucking sixty in about two seconds. Their lips had barely met before Dylan grabbed a fistful of Tyler’s hair, pressing him in and sticking his tongue in Tyler’s mouth. He tasted like Powerade and beer, and he still smelled like sweat and cheap soap. Probably Tyler should have been grossed out but fuck. That was pretty much his entire life, and it was fantastic.

He let Dylan shuffle them down until Tyler was spread out on top of him. Tyler had to be squishing him but Dylan didn’t seem to mind. The hand not in Tyler’s hair ran down his side, rucked up his shirt and spread over his spine.

Tyler rocked against him, experimental. Neither of them were even close to hard yet, but—

Dylan pulled back enough to say, “Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Just—like this, for a bit.”

And, alright, not like Tyler minded making out.

For a while, Tyler didn’t know how long, they barely even made it to second base. Dylan was solid underneath him, and as they kissed Tyler felt him loosen up. Even his breaths felt deeper. His hands skimmed under Tyler’s shirt, thumb pressing in between his ribs and fingertips prodding against a couple of nasty bruises. Tyler tried to get some groping of his own in but gravity worked against him.

Still aching from the game and exhausted from losing, Tyler just relaxed into it. He almost didn’t notice he was getting hard for a while. Then he shifted down a little, trying to get at Dylan’s neck, and ended up with one of Dylan’s thick thighs between his. And this time when Tyler rocked his hips Dylan hummed against his temple and rocked lazily back.

They were still on the _couch. _

“Why aren’t we on a bed right now?”

“I don’t know where your room is,” said Dylan, and Tyler laughed loud enough that Dylan jerked away to glare at him.

Tyler rolled up to his feet and smirked a little when Dylan stared. He knew what he probably looked like, hair everywhere and shirt hiked up to his ribs and the line of his dick pushing against his sweats. And Dylan—his legs were still spread from where Tyler had been between them, and his mouth was red and wet with Tyler’s spit. Sure, Tyler knew what he looked like naked. He still really wanted to see him there anyway.

“C’mon,” he said, and hauled Dylan off after him.

As soon as the bedroom door shut behind them, Dylan pushed him up against it, and they made out for a minute even though it probably defeated the purpose of moving. “I wanna fuck you.”

And, yeah, his captain voice was forever going to give Tyler a semi now, that was fine and normal. “Yeah, fuck.” Tyler leaned back and let Dylan tug his shirt up his arms. “Skip the condom, if you want.”

Dylan paused halfway through pulling Tyler’s shirt off, so he was stuck with his arms above his head and his elbows all tangled up. “That’s so fucking stupid,” he said with something like admiration, and poked the _No Guts, No Glory _tat on Tyler’s pec. “That’s almost as stupid as your fucking stupid tattoo.”

“Yuh-huh,” Tyler said, and then yelped, because Dylan flicked at his nipple. Dylan grinned and shoved Tyler toward the bed. He shook himself loose of his shirt, saw Dylan stripping out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t a big exciting thing, they stripped around each other all the time, but Tyler still whistled. Dylan snapped his T-shirt against Tyler’s ribs, and Tyler grabbed onto the fabric, hauling Dylan closer while he collapsed on the bed. “C’mon, bud.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dylan stepped out of his boxer briefs and again, not news, but goddamn he had an ass. Tyler wasn’t really into rimming or anything but he would, for Dylan, just to get up close and personal with that.

Instead of getting between Tyler’s legs he leaned a knee onto the mattress, near Tyler’s ribs, and swung his other leg over Tyler to straddle his chest. Dylan’s dick bobbed out between them, not particularly big compared to the rest of him but _pretty, _somehow, proportionate and pink and curving up toward his stomach_. _Tyler’s hands came up to rest on Dylan’s thighs and he rubbed them a little, digging into the game-worn muscle.

“This okay?” Dylan asked, voice rough, and Tyler looked up at him. He’d braced one hand against the wall—Tyler still hadn’t gotten around to getting a bed frame with a headboard—and it made all the lines of muscle in his arm stand out. He wondered if Dylan could just, like, hold him down like this. If that was maybe something they could try later. His dick twitched against his sweats.

Tyler snorted. “Is this _okay._” He wrapped his hand around Dylan’s dick, watched the head disappear under foreskin as he stroked him. Dylan made a small sound that turned into a full-on groan when Tyler leaned forward that last little bit to wrap his mouth around him.

At this angle it was impossible to take Dylan in deep, so Tyler didn’t try. Instead he worked the head into his mouth, ran his tongue just under it while his hand worked the rest. Dylan rocked into it, shallow thrusts that didn’t bother Tyler, helped him out more than anything. He pulled off to give a couple good licks down Dylan’s shaft and then reached both hands around to grab Dylan’s ass, pulled him up until his knees were under Tyler’s armpits. It wasn’t comfortable at all, and Tyler’s back and shoulders were still protesting from the game, but he didn’t care enough to stop.

Dylan noticed anyway. He leaned over, out of Tyler’s reach, and when Tyler looked up to ask what the fuck he was doing he tucked a pillow under Tyler’s shoulders.

“Oh,” Tyler said. “Thanks.”

Dylan grinned back. “No prob—” and then “_Fuck, _Tyler,” because with the new angle Tyler could take him most of the way down now. Tyler pulled off again to beam at him and planted an obnoxious kiss on the head of Dylan’s dick, and in return Dylan ruffled his hair.

He was quiet. Somehow that didn’t surprise Tyler. Dylan always got quiet when he got intense.

Tyler kept the pace slow so Dylan didn’t accidentally get off, and Dylan didn’t seem in any hurry to stop him, but he still wanted to see how deep he could take Dylan like this. His hand drifted lower on Dylan’s ass and he glanced up through his eyelashes when he ran his fingertips down Dylan’s crack, saw Dylan inhale sharply when Tyler found his hole.

He was—Tyler rubbed his fingers across it, and Dylan squeezed his eyes shut, and he felt _wet. _Loose, too, like he’d already prepped himself, earlier. Tyler’s neglected dick twitched again. God. _God._ Had Dylan done that in the locker room? In _their _locker room? Lubed up, fingered himself open while the rest of the team was only feet away—

Tyler pushed his middle finger into Dylan. It went in up to the second knuckle with no resistance, and Dylan tried to choke Tyler with his dick.

Tyler pulled off, eyes watering, and he and Dylan swore at each other for a minute.

“_Warn_ me,” Dylan snapped finally. He was bright red down his chest and neck, and wrapped his hand hard against Tyler’s throat, thumb digging in under Tyler’s jaw. Not enough to choke. Tyler pressed up into it, felt him give.

“Sorry,” Tyler said, hoarse, and swiped at the spit dripping out of his mouth. Right, Dylan’s whole—thing, with the forfeits, probably shouldn’t— “Sorry. Didn’t mean to, like, remind you or whatever.”

“That’s not—” Dylan blinked and rubbed his knuckles against Tyler’s temple, where the tears had started running down into his hair. His dick bumped against Tyler’s cheek and Tyler turned to mouth at it. Dylan turned even redder, and yanked his hand back to squeeze at the base. “That’s not the problem, Bert.”

Tyler considered this. “You gotta hurry up and fuck me, man.”

Dylan nodded and reached for the nearest drawer. Joke was on him, because Tyler’s lube was actually under another pillow. “Why,” Dylan asked.

Tyler shrugged, and Dylan just sighed, rolled off Tyler’s chest, and snatched the bottle from his hand. Tyler shoved his pants off, rolled over onto his stomach and folded his arm under his face. “Just go in with two, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, man, I kinda do this a lot.” Not strictly true, but whatever. He had done it enough that he knew what he could take. Dylan’s head tilted, and Tyler grinned at him. “You’re into that?”

“Tyler,” Dylan whined, and Tyler didn’t buy his annoyance for a second. He slapped Dylan’s thigh.

“You think I’m sexy, don’t even front.”

“We’re literally having sex right now, how is that a surprise.”

It kind of was, though. He wasn’t sure what this was for Dylan, exactly, if he was just trying to get out of his own head, if he found Tyler attractive at all. At least could be confident about the answer to the second thing.

“We’re literally not, though, right now,” Tyler said, and wiggled his ass. “Get to it, yeah?”

Dylan snorted, but he shoved Tyler’s legs apart anyway and moved between them, leaned up to kiss the back of Tyler’s neck while he uncapped the bottle of lube. Tyler arched up to meet him.

When he finally sank two fingers into Tyler he did it slowly, and Tyler could see Dylan watching his face. The stretch wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world but it wasn’t _bad, _either. Another deep ache to match all the ones he’d picked up from the game, the long rocky season where even players on _not_-shitty teams got injured. One more didn’t matter. He rocked back onto Dylan’s hand and a hiss slipped between his teeth when his dick rubbed against the sheets.

“Yeah, fuck, like that,” Tyler managed.

Dylan’s other hand clenched around his hip while he pumped in and out of Tyler, still slow, rubbing deliberately inside him. “Don’t get off yet.”

“Jesus, I know.” A laugh slipped between Tyler’s teeth. “I’m never gonna—”

“What?”

A knuckle pressed up against Tyler’s prostate, and he muffled the groan with his forearm.

“Never gonna _what, _Bert,” Dylan asked, smug.

“Hear you give orders without getting hard,” said Tyler, and that was the last coherent thing he said for a while, until Dylan was working three fingers into him easy and he finally had to say, “I’m good, Larks, put your dick in me already.”

Dylan pulled his fingers out and lined up, the head of his dick nudging against Tyler’s hole. “You sure about the condom?”

“Obviously,” Tyler said, and that was it, that was enough.

They both made kind of embarrassing noises when Dylan pushed in, warm and deep and with all his weight bearing down on Tyler. He stretched out along Tyler’s back and fucked him slow, but like everything else they’d done that felt more for Dylan’s benefit than Tyler’s, letting him feel it. Not how Tyler normally liked to get fucked, but it was still good. Almost relaxing, the quiet little sounds Dylan was making over him, the occasional press of Dylan’s mouth along his shoulders and neck.

“Can you get off like this?” Dylan asked Tyler’s shoulder blade after—a while, Tyler didn’t know, time stretched out like old tape. He almost felt like he could fall asleep like this.

“No, but that’s okay.” Dylan’s nose skimmed up his jaw, and the head of his cock nudged against the inside of Tyler’s rim as he pulled his hips back before slamming them back down again. Tyler’s breath shuddered. Maybe he couldn’t actually fall asleep. “You should come in me.”

“How are you this easy,” Dylan muttered, and kissed the corner of Tyler’s mouth, and Tyler thought, _someone has to be._

Dylan wrapped an arm around Tyler’s waist. When he sat up, he pulled Tyler with him. Tyler whined at the loss of pressure on his dick—it just left the tip skimming against the sheets—but Dylan started fucking into him in earnest, then, putting his muscle into it. His cock ran over Tyler’s prostate with just enough pressure to tease; Tyler arched his back, and Dylan’s hips slammed against Tyler’s ass as he bottomed out. After that it didn’t take long until Dylan’s hand tightened hard enough to bruise on Tyler’s hips, and his dick twitched, warm wetness filling Tyler’s hole. Dylan fucked Tyler through it, and when he was done he pulled out and flipped Tyler over to kiss him messily.

Kissing was kind of a thing, with Dylan, Tyler was noticing. His beard was scraping Tyler’s jaw raw and Tyler didn’t even mind. He buried one hand in Dylan’s hair and got the other between them, jerking himself off as he ground up against Dylan’s abs.

“Let me,” Dylan panted against Tyler’s mouth, and grabbed his wrist.

“Sure, bud,” Tyler said.

And instead of jerking Tyler off, Dylan wound his way back down Tyler’s body again, mouthing at his pecs, his ribs, and by the time he got to Tyler’s tattoo Tyler managed to say, “You don’t have to.”

Dylan looked up from where he’d been kissing Tyler’s abs. He really had no fucking business looking shy, but he did anyway. “I like it,” he said, and wrapped his lips around the shaft of Tyler’s dick.

“Jesus,” Tyler said. If he kept looking he’d come in about half a second, but he couldn’t _not _know how Dylan looked with his mouth around Tyler’s dick, shiny and stretched wide. One of his hands dipped to cup Tyler’s balls and then lower. Fingers skimmed against Tyler’s too-sensitive hole, pushed inside him and then crooked; Tyler swore and pushed up into Dylan’s mouth. And then Dylan jacked him off, spreading his own cum down Tyler’s shaft, and chased it with his mouth. Tyler’s hands fisted in the sheets. “Jesus fuck, Dylan, I’m gonna—”

Dylan braced his hand, shiny with lube and cum, against Tyler’s stomach, and pulled off. “Go ahead,” he said, close enough that Tyler could feel his lips moving against the head of his dick, and then closed his mouth around it again.

Tyler went off like a goddamn rocket, and Dylan swallowed like a champ. He does kept his mouth on Tyler’s dick until he was soft, licked until Tyler was squirming and oversensitive. “Get up here,” Tyler said, and Dylan gave him another lick, just to be an asshole, before he crawled up the bed and collapsed on top of Tyler, burying his face in the crook of Tyler’s neck.

“Good idea,” Dylan said after a second.

Tyler laughed, said, “I know,” and Dylan nipped at his throat.

He gave Dylan a minute before he started to roll out from under him—the sheets were a lost cause but he could stop himself from sticking to them, at least. Only Dylan wasn’t having it. His arm tightened around Tyler’s ribs.

“Gotta clean up, man,” said Tyler.

“Okay.” Dylan propped his chin up on Tyler’s collarbone so he could look at him. “Just. Give me a second before you kick me out.”

“Who’s kicking you out?” Tyler snapped. “Drama queen. You’re staying here.”

Dylan blinked slowly, and the corner of his mouth crept up. He ducked back down to Tyler’s neck and started working on giving him a hickey. Probably it would be a good idea to stop him, but what the hell, it felt nice. Even if he definitely wasn’t going to be able to get it up again any time in the next few minutes.

“It’s not just you in this, you know?” Tyler said after a second. “You’re our captain, but the season’s not all _on you._”

Dylan made a noncommittal noise.

“And if you don’t let other people take the forfeits I’ll lock you in a bathroom stall.”

Dylan snorted and licked at Tyler’s neck, pulled back to examine his handiwork. Tyler could feel the warm bloom pulsing against his skin. “Okay,” he said, eyes flicking up to Tyler’s face, and then, “thanks.”

Tyler stretched back, closed his eyes. “I’m here. Any time you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> listen. am i proud i wrote this? no, but the nhl is cancelled and some people write ill-advised smut to cope.
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated.


End file.
